Undefeated World: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Survival Fiction Series (The EMP Survivor Series Book 5) (The EMP Survivor Series (5 Book series) 1)

by Chris Pike

  He needed to be ready.

  Dillon remained perfectly still on his cot, concentrating to control his breathing and rapidly beating heart.

  Someone swung the door open and it hit the wall, hard. Several guards carrying AKs burst into the room. A glaring light flooded the room, wakening the prisoners, causing confusion. Dillon put his hand to his eyes to shield them from the blinding light.

  A guard barked out orders in Russian to his comrades. Another shined a second searchlight into the room.

  In broken English, the Americans were told to assemble single file against the chalkboard.

  Dillon rose and stumbled to the front of the classroom, feigning clumsiness to imply feebleness. Larry followed behind him like an obedient dog.

  In the confusion, one of the Americans panicked and attempted to push his way past the Russians. A rifle butt to the stomach sent him reeling to the floor, jolting him back to reality. He clutched his stomach, writhing and moaning.

  While the guards were occupied with the Americans and searching cots and belongings, Dillon took the opportunity to question Larry. In a low voice, he said, “You talked a lot in your sleep last night.”

  “What’d I say?” Larry asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Something about your wife and how sorry you were for what happened.”

  Larry grunted.

  “What did you mean?”

  Larry felt Dillon’s piercing glare, but didn’t dare look him in the eye. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Sounds like someone’s guilty conscience is getting the best of them.”

  “My conscience is clear,” Larry shot back.

  “It better be, because someone alerted the Russians to the fact a large gathering of local townspeople was taking place at Holly’s ranch. The timing of the attack was too good to think it was purely coincidental.”

  “If you think it was me, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “We’ll see,” Dillon muttered. As Larry was about to reply, Dillon clenched his teeth and said, “Be quiet. Don’t say anything else.”

  The Russian soldiers parted and stood at attention when Petya Ruslan walked in. The atmosphere became tinged with an odd combination of reverence and hatred, and Dillon recognized the big Russian as the same man from yesterday and the same one at Holly’s ranch.

  Dillon noted the man was dressed in civilian clothes, and at times seemed to be in command of the mission. He wore a sandy colored vest, which no doubt concealed his weapons and provided information about his last deployment. His muscular frame and scarred face indicated he had both faced hell and dished plenty of it out. He did not carry a firearm, yet the knife in the scabbard was one to cause alarm. The scar running down the side of his face clued Dillon to the fact he had been wounded in a knife fight. It also clued him to the fact he wasn’t as deft at knife fighting as he wanted people to believe. Posturing was half the battle, and this dude was good at it from the way he dressed, his commanding gait of ownership, claiming whatever space he was in, and the suspicious eyes taking in his surroundings, not missing anything.

  Dillon knew he’d better be on his game.

  With the skill of a surgeon, the man whipped out a knife from under his vest.

  Petya Ruslan clasped his hands behind his back and strolled over to the line where the men stood. He inspected each man as if they were a commodity needing to pass a test. He stopped in front of Larry, and eyed him up and down, not so much in an accepting way, rather contempt. He spoke in Russian, which elicited bouts of muffled laugher from the soldiers.

  Larry could only helplessly stand there, impotently taking whatever insults had been said about him. He hung his head in shame.

  Ruslan addressed the prisoners. “Stand at attention if you want to live.”

  One of the men in line cracked a half smile, smirking. Ruslan sprang on him with the force of a killer whale on a hapless seal. In one deft move he thrust his knife up and sliced the man’s ear. It took the man’s brain a long second to register what had just happened. Once his ear started burning like the devil as if someone had splashed gasoline on it then threw a match, he let out a gasp, instinctively putting his hand to his ear, cupping it.

  Ruslan threw him up against the brick wall and shoved his massive forearm into the man’s Adam’s apple. “You want to smile again?” Ruslan pressed the knife just inside the man’s right nostril.

  The man stiffened and didn’t even take a breath.

  “No more trouble?”

  Speaking like a ventriloquist, the man said, “No, Sir.”

  “Smart answer.” Ruslan casually withdrew the bloody knife and wiped it on the man’s shirt. Then he roughly grabbed him by his collar, now stained in blood dripping from his ear, and shoved him to the door leading to the hallway. Ruslan addressed a guard. “Take him to a medic and have that bloody mess sewed back together.”

  Dillon stood in line with the others, barely able to control his anger. The inability to strike back grated on the moral code that directed his life. He balled his fists, then released them. He had worked tirelessly to put criminals behind bars during his former stint as district attorney. He had won multiple cases against the dregs of society, so to do nothing while these bullies were throwing themselves around and laughing while they did it disturbed him immensely.

  “My name is Petya Ruslan and I am your new master. I do not give orders twice. Cooperate and you will be treated well. Disobey and you will die at my amusement.” Ruslan walked the line and observed each man as he waved his knife, at times drawing the cold metal down the side of a prisoner’s face. He enjoyed instilling fear and seeing the men react.

  Dillon used his peripheral vision to watch Ruslan. When emboldened, Dillon flicked his eyes to the knife. It was familiar, the shape, the handle, the length of the blade. During his time in the military, he recalled meeting a special unit operating in Afghanistan. The unit was from Italy and the men carried a local Italian-made knife called the Fulcrum, manufactured by Extrema Ratio. The unique overlapping rectangle handle design was unmistakable. It wouldn’t surprise Dillon if the knife was taken from one of the dead men’s bodies as a war trophy.

  Finally, Ruslan stopped in front of Dillon. He took his sweet time, sizing up Dillon from head to toe. Dillon was shorter than Ruslan, yet stockier, with tree trunks for legs, strong arms, and an attitude oozing trouble. When he stepped directly in front of Dillon, Ruslan expected a flinch, an eye twitch, fast blinking eyes, rapid breathing, anything to indicate fear or nervousness.

  There was nothing, and that infuriated Ruslan.

  He used the tip of the knife to draw blood from Dillon’s nose.

  Still no response.

  “You will be trouble.”

  “I assure you I will not be.”

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons,” Dillon said, looking directly into Ruslan’s cold eyes.

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I give you my word.”

  Ruslan paused, choosing what he would divulge about the fire set at the ranch house. “If your word relies on the wellbeing of your wife or daughter, I can assure you not to trouble yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dillon’s cool demeanor evaporated. His expression morphed from one of casual indifference to perplexed concern.

  “Since the house was of no use to us, Colonel Burkov had it burned to the ground.”

  Larry, who was standing next to Dillon, asked, “The house burned?”

  Ruslan jerked his head toward Larry. “That’s right. Corporal Andrey Koshkin had the pleasure of torching it. Is this a problem?”

  Dillon’s hand twitched at his side.

  Ruslan sensed he had hit a nerve. He nonchalantly turned his back to Dillon, letting the information sink in. Chandler reached over to Dillon and squeezed his arm, holding him back. Dillon’s tense muscles relaxed. Knowing Chandler had his back provided some semblance of assurance.

  Ruslan whipped around. �
�Are you not curious about the house?”

  Dillon shrugged. “It can be rebuilt. Anything is replaceable.”

  “Anything?” Ruslan paused for effect then stepped to the side and glanced at Larry. “Even wives?”

  “Why does my wife have anything to do with this?” Larry asked. “Was she in the house?”

  “Ah, so there was someone in the house? No?”

  Larry’s eyes nervously bounced around. “I uh, I uh, don’t know.”

  “If there was, they are dead now, so no need to worry about them anymore.”

  Dillon thought Larry was about to cry like a baby, and suspected Larry hadn’t signed up for his wife to be hurt. While Ruslan was quite convincing about having the house burned, Dillon wasn’t so sure about it. House fires resulted in black, billowing smoke, could be smelled from miles away, and Dillon had seen no indication a house had caught fire. Either the guy was straight up lying, or whoever had set the fire did a poor job or placed the accelerant in a way it wouldn’t cause damage to the house. If it was the latter, then they had a friend among the Russians.

  As expected, Larry started blubbering. Between the wailing and crying, his words were a jumbled mess of uncontained emotions.

  Ruslan couldn’t be bothered anymore with Larry. He came back to Dillon, who he considered a worthy opponent.

  “You,” Ruslan said, tapping his knife on Dillon’s chest. “What was your profession?”

  “I was an assistant District Attorney. I prosecute those who break the laws of the United States.”

  “Ah, a lawyer. Liars, all of them. They hide a liter of truth in an ocean of deception.” Ruslan waved the knife around to emphasize his contempt.

  Dillon remained silent. He’d been insulted much worse before.

  “Let me tell you my profession. I do whatever is necessary to get the job done. I worked my way into Spetsnaz by delivering what was required. While in Africa I learned methods of torture even the UN investigators swore were perpetrated by indigenous people. Countrymen are most savage upon their own countrymen. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Dillon said nothing.

  The more Dillon thought about it, the more he was convinced Ruslan’s knife had come from the Italian unit he had met. The thought of those brave men tortured by a sadist like Ruslan turned Dillon’s stomach. Yeah, he planned to kill Ruslan first.

  After Ruslan became bored with toying with the Americans and not being able to break through Dillon’s stoic demeanor, he left, motioning for Andrey Koshkin to come with him.

  The prisoners stood stoically, waiting for their next directions.

  Chapter 23

  “Dillon,” Chandler said, speaking in hushed tones. “He’s got your number and will be watching you. Be careful what you say, and don’t be fooled by anything he says.”

  “I’m trying not to,” Dillon said. “He told me things he should not have unless he planned to kill us at the end of all this. Worse than that, he is so perceptive that it makes me think someone in our group is a traitor.”

  “I’ve got my suspicions about that too,” Chandler confirmed. “Dillon, you have to show confidence to the troops or they won’t follow you when the time comes. Know that I have your back and we’ll find a way to flush out whoever it is.”

  Approaching steps sounded in the hallway. “Shh, we’ll talk later.”

  With the grace of a prima ballerina, Colonel Mikhael Burkov, dressed in a pressed uniform adorned with medals and military braid, entered the room. Petya Ruslan followed behind. Burkov’s presence was as much for show as it was for power. The soldiers stood stiff at attention, unblinking eyes transfixed and focused beyond the classroom, beyond the beige walls and posters of unfinished classroom projects.

  Ruslan shot an annoyed glance at Burkov, but knew his place and it wasn’t wise to question Burkov in front of his men. Ruslan took a step back to let the Colonel pass.

  After counting the men, Burkov left without saying a word. He exited the classroom, gave orders to one of the soldiers, then stepped back inside.

  “Please pardon the confusion, and I do humbly apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused you.”

  One of the soldiers handed Burkov a clipboard. He took it and read the names and professions of each man. Burkov strolled over to the men and acknowledged them by a slight nod. “You may be wondering why we are here and what we plan to do with you. I would like to assure you we mean you no harm as long as you do as you are told. Any type of insubordination will not be tolerated and will lead to solitary confinement. I can also assure you once we have what we need, we will leave and you may go back to your farms and shops, wives or girlfriends. Are there any questions?”

  There were no inquiries.

  The door opened and a guard shoved Ryan into the room. He fell to the floor and rolled on his back.

  Ryan had a cut above his left eye, which was swollen shut, a purplish bruise on the left side of his face, and a busted lip. Dillon immediately went to Ryan and helped him to his feet.

  “As hosts in your great country,” Burkov said, “I would like to extend an invitation to everyone here to be our guests at a bountiful American breakfast. We are civilized people, and know you must eat. The food will be hot, and you may eat all you want. I don’t want anyone to go hungry.” Burkov stepped toward the door. “Andrey, take several men and escort our guests to the cafeteria.”

  Andrey Koshkin saluted his commanding officer. “Yes, Sir.”

  After Burkov left, Andrey motioned the men to the door. In heavily accented English, he said, “Cafeteria, this way.”

  With two guards flanking the men, they walked single file toward the cafeteria. Two more guards brought up the rear, and Andrey followed several steps behind them.

  The school hallway had lockers lined on one side, and brightly colored banners with the school’s mascot, the Hornets, decorated the walls. Drawings of hornets, ranging from caricatures with friendly faces to those worthy of the dinosaur age were taped to lockers. School pride ran deep.

  Dillon was curiously drawn to the childish drawings, and he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Mesmerized, in fact.

  Hold ‘em Hornets, Halt ‘em Hornets, Hang ‘em Hornets, Hi Jack ‘em Hornets, and various other clever uses of words starting with the letter H had been used for slogans. There were even two hornets high fiving each other. The imagination of teenagers never ceased to amaze Dillon. The teens had not yet been encumbered with the adult stresses of bills and mortgages, problem kids, problem spouses, bosses, taxes, and health issues, all which had the propensity to kill creativity. Their minds were free to create and solve, and to think outside the box.

  Dillon kept staring at the hornet images.

  Why?

  Was there some sort of hidden meaning in the drawings? Some higher authority guiding him to a solution? A vague Bible verse popped into his mind, and Dillon searched for the words. He blocked out the extraneous noises of shuffling feet, coughs, whispers, Russians barking orders... He cleared his mind of chattering voices to concentrate on this moment.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  Nothing else mattered. He searched for the truth in the moment, tapping deep into his subconscious. Somewhere the truth was here, right before him. His breathing slowed, a spiritual peace engulfed him, and the meaning came to him clearly as he recalled the precise words from Deuteronomy 7:20. “Moreover, the LORD your God will send the hornet against them, until those who are left and hide themselves from you perish.”

  That was it!

  He was the hornet, and he planned to fight the Russians with whatever he had, using whatever tactics and weapons were at his disposal.

  This was his home, and the Russians were invaders.

  He was in it to win.

  And he didn’t plan to fight fair.

  Chapter 24

  “What do you mean you know why the Russians are here?” Holly asked.

  “I mean just that.”

  “Come in. We
all need to hear this. Nico, you too. Come sit at the table. I think we should all holster our weapons.”

  Nico held a chair for Dorothy, then sat opposite her. He was in full Border Patrol mode. While he had been in Austin, John and Tatiana Chandler spoke highly of Holly, Amanda, and Cassie, relayed by their son Chandler. Anyone with a military sniper background would be a good judge of character. Dorothy was the wildcard in the bunch. A hanger-on, like a groupie at a rock concert.

  Dorothy sat down at the table and relayed what she knew. “A neighbor of mine saw me at my house and came over to check on me since she hadn’t seen me in a couple of days. I explained what happened at the ranch and how the Russians raided the wedding party and took the men.”

  “What did your neighbor have to say?”

  “She said several days ago a friend of theirs had asked her husband and several others if they could help out at their ranch. They would pay in food, so her husband jumped at the chance. While they were repairing the fence the cows had knocked down, they needed more tools. Her husband volunteered to go to the barn to get the tools and that’s when he saw a Russian military helicopter fly over the house. He was positive of it. The chopper flew to where the other men were working. He couldn’t exactly see what happened, but heard a few gunshots. Like warning shots.”

  “What did he do?” Holly asked.

  “He didn’t know what to do, so he hid in the barn. It only took a few minutes for whoever it was to find the house. He said he heard foreign voices. He thought they were Russian, but he wasn’t sure. He crawled to the top of a stack of hay then jumped behind it to hide.”

  “They didn’t find him?” Holly asked.

  “No,” Dorothy said. “They searched the barn and fired some rounds into the hay, but it only scared a rat that ran across his arm.”

  “That’s all good to know,” Nico said, “but why are the Russians here?”

  “This is where it gets interesting,” Dorothy said. “My friend’s husband is in the oil business. He did some type of roughneck work at that discovery well made last year.”